


give my new body a chance

by pasdecoeur



Series: stevetony works [1]
Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Porn, Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, followed by enthusiastic consent i swear, previously posted on antithestral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19031884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur
Summary: “How many times can you…?” Tony asked, gesturing vaguely downwards.“How many times can I what?” Steve blinked, glanced down, and then, “Oh.” His eyes were very wide. “I… A few times.”“Howmany,”Tony demanded.This was new, this thing between them, and Tony had… specific tastes. If Steve was going to be put off by it, well, best to let him express it now, before Tony got too invested.A voice laughed in the back of his head.‘Beforeyou got too invested? Bit late for that, isn't it? You poor, fucking idiot.’Tony shoved the voice away.He had a lot of practice shoving the voice away.“I don't know,” Steve retorted, on the edge of sharpness, as ifhewas the one sporting an erection hard enough to hammer nails. “I haven't tested the outer limits ofhow many times I can come in one night,Tony.”“Well, then. Let's find out.”





	give my new body a chance

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhere towards the end of season 1, although frankly, you don't need to know anything about the show to read the fic. Title from SYML's 'Body'.

 

**Now**

“Tony,” Steve was saying, choked. “Tony, _please.”_

His hands were fisted in the sheets, and there were slow rips opening up in the thousand-count Egyptian cotton. Which is why those hands were not on Tony's hips, because, they both knew, he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to hold back, be able to not harm Tony, not crush his bones to powder, he was so desperate to come.

“Don't you dare,” Tony growled, his voice low and heavy. There were lines of sweat trickling down his back, making his hair wet, dripping over his forehead, into his eyes, trickling opalescent over the reactor.

“I c— _can't,”_ Steve hissed, as Tony slowly rose up on his quads, and then fucked himself back on Steve’s thick, aching cock. “God, I can't, I can't hold back, Tony, _please,_ I need to _come.”_

He looked like he was close to actually breaking a sweat, his chest already red and blotchy, his eyes engulfed in black. And _god,_ what a rush that was, to see Captain America pinned and trembling underneath him, to see that mouth form his name. To see him beg.

 

###### Then

Tony is the one who kisses Steve first.

That's the part of it that doesn't make sense, because he’s wanted to kiss Steve for— for ages, forever, it feels like, but he’s always managed to talk himself off the ledge before. Their friendship is more important, the team is more important. And the thing is—

The thing is, people fall for billionaires pretty easily, and that's the sad truth, and Tony knows he’s decent looking, and pretty smooth to bat; there's not a whole lot of people who can withstand that sort of charm offensive, but clearly the Avengers are immune.

Steve is immune.

So that's the part that doesn't make sense, see, that Tony kisses Steve, because it's nuts. Maybe the only part, maybe the rest of it was inevitable from there.

It's a lot of maybes; the only thing set in concrete is this: Tony is the one who—

It's been a long night, that's what starts it off, a long night, and a _barely_ eked out win, all in the frigid battleground of the Siberian tundra: the Cabal beaten back by a terrifyingly narrow margin.

Since coming back to New York, they've all taken advantage of the Tower’s limitless hot water systems, toweling off in the common area, sipping coffee (heavily spiked with Tony’s stash of really good brandy) and hot cocoa ( _dangerously_ spiked, because Clint’s an idiot), enjoying a quiet, stunning sunrise breaking over the East River.

Steve says something about a refill, and Tony glances at his empty mug, and thinks, _oh why not,_ and follows him into the pantry.

So maybe that's why: the downrush after the adrenaline, the warmth of the coffee, the lingering warmth from the alcohol. Maybe it's because of the memory of the cold that they’ve all been trying to banish. Maybe that edge of fear that Tony's carried deep underneath the pulsing blue core of the arc reactor, ever since Afghanistan: _I don't want to die like this._

Or maybe it's just that nothing, really, ever feels quite so warm as a human touch.

Like I said. It's a lot of maybes.

But Steve turns around, says, _‘Hey, do you want a refill too? I think we're out of mini marshmallows, sorry.’_ And Tony carefully puts his mug down on the countertop, takes another step, leans a little closer.

It's always surprising, every time they come this close, which isn't often in the first place, how unbalanced it makes him feel, how it makes his skin prickle, and his heartbeat stutter, having this chance to step in close and have Steve meet his eyes.

It's addictive.

 _‘Tony?’_ Steve says, like he isn't quite sure what's happening, even though his gaze has flicked down to his mouth twice now.

So Tony kisses him. And the whole world stops.

 

**Now**

In the beginning, Steve had been playful, sparkling with mirth, kissing Tony sweetly, arching into his touch, a slow delicious grind through their pants, like they were teenagers making out in the secret quiet.

An hour ago, even, he had been whispering Tony’s name, hands sweeping down his bare back, letting Tony pin him to a wall, kisses turning hotter, hungrier, more needy.

And Tony wasn't a total bastard, he’d been nice, brought Steve off with his hands and mouth, fast and dirty, the best way he knew how.

“Can I—Tell me what you want, my mouth, I could,” Steve had said, and Tony had to close his eyes, because that. _That._

_Steve kneeling at his feet, taking his cock, not-quite choking on it because he had no gag reflex, and of course he didn't need to breathe as much._

Tony had wiped his hand on Steve’s thigh, through the crinkly golden hair, careless, smearing it with come, and asked, instead, “How many times can you…?” gesturing vaguely downwards.

“How many times can I what?” Steve blinked, glanced at his wet, red, come-smeared cock, and then, “Oh.” His eyes were very wide. “I… A few times.”

“How _many,”_ Tony demanded.

This was new, this thing between them, and Tony had… specific tastes. If Steve was going to be put off by it, well, best to let him express it now, before Tony got too invested.

_A voice laughed in the back of his head._ ‘Before _you got too invested? Bit late for that, isn't it? You poor, fucking idiot.’_

Tony shoved the voice away.

He had a lot of practice shoving the voice away.

“I don't know,” Steve retorted, on the edge of sharpness, as if _he_ was the one sporting an erection hard enough to hammer nails. “I haven't tested the outer limits of _how many times I can come in one night,_ Tony.”

“Well, why the fuck not,” Tony muttered crankily, and dove in for another kiss, Steve huffing a quiet laugh, threading his hand through those layers of soft, damp, ash blond hair, curving his jaw to exactly the right angle, walking him backwards into the bed.

 

###### Then

Steve had kissed him back.

That was the thing: for the first, delirious few seconds, Steve had surged into Tony's body, had dropped his mug with an unheard crash, and knocked him into the counter _hard,_ groaning, low and rough, _hungry,_ biting into Tony's mouth hard, gripping his ass, fucking that beautiful tongue into his mouth, and _god,_ Tony had never— he had dreamt, of course he had dreamt, but for it to be _real—_

He must have made some kind of sound, something desperate and needy and pitched, the kind of sound you made just before you said, _‘Fuck me, you need to fuck me, Steve, baby, just put it in me, need you, god, I_ need _you, please—’_

So maybe it was a good thing, that in the next second, Steve had wrenched himself away, practically thrown himself backwards, a flat, horrified look on his face.

“Steve?” Tony asked, hoarse, because he’s seen mixed messages more than once in his life, but this is a whole ‘nother level of thing.

“Not you,” Steve said, hoarse, raw, each word coming out like it was drawing blood from his throat. “I can't _._ Oh god. Not with you.”

And he walked out, just like that, just that easy— _not you—_ and Tony tried to grip the counter and remember to breathe— _I can't—_ while ice pierced his veins, while his throat filled up with blood— _oh god—_ while it felt like the shrapnel had cored through his miserable, useless fucking heart anyway.

_Not with you._

 

**Now**

Steve flipped him down, crawled down his body, opened him up with gentle, precise fingers, burying three down to the knuckle and curling, curling them up, making Tony arch off the bed like he had been _electrocuted_ , groan and gasp his name, and nearly lose it right there.

“ _Stop,”_ Tony snarled, and there must have been something in his voice, some kind of panic, because Steve complied immediately, backing away. There was fear on his face, blanched and grey, and in his words: “Tony? Are you— Did I—” _hurt you,_ he never managed to say, because that was enough time for Tony to grasp his nape and pull him down, to turn him over so the ridge of his cock was rubbing against Tony’s hole, wet and open, loose from all of Steve’s hard work.

“Oh,” Steve said, grinning wryly, palms stroking his sides, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the thunder of his heartbeat. Son of a bitch wasn't even out of breath.

“At my age,” Tony murmured, hands skating down that impressive chest, “you get one chance a night, _if_ you're lucky. I’d like to make it last.”

Steve glanced, questioning, at Tony's cock, saturated a dark red now, the head a dusky purple, velvety and wet and Steve wanted to _taste,_ wanted to lick at the head, suck it feel kntl his mouth— “How long, exactly, is that supposed to take?”

Tony had smirked, and quietly enjoyed the way Steve swallowed, like his throat had gone dry. He leaned down, brushed an almost gentle kiss to the corner of an eye. “Let's find out.”

 

###### Then

So Tony did the reasonable thing anyone did if they were hot and horny and filthy rich, and had just been shot down by the lo— by the only person they had ever— by the person they wanted to be around all the—

 _Fuck_.

By the person they wanted to _fuck_.

He put on his tightest jeans, the kind that made his ass look seven kinds of fuckable, and a dark silk shirt that he left mostly unbuttoned, letting the reactor do its job, and got into his Lotus and roared off to the seediest gay bar he could find in the East Village.

And it worked. Of course it worked. Tony burned off the caffeine high with tequila and flaming vodka shots that someone else bought him—and wasn't that a crime? _No one_ should _ever_ be buying Tony things, except it was _fun,_ all of it was _fun_ —grinded with boys way too young for him, made out with a tattooed, beardy Adonis built like some biker version of Thor, let a stranger whisper filth in his ears, rubbing his hard-on into Tony’s back, tipping his head into the music— _‘Look at you,’_ he was saying, and Tony could hear him even over the music, ‘ _god, you're so hungry for it, so hungry for my cock, you sweet, pretty bitch, I’m going to split you open, gonna fuck you till you can't breathe,’_ a hand coming around him, rubbing Tony’s bulge through his pants, mouthing his neck, that cock still grinding into the small of his back, terrifyingly big, perfectly sized, _‘gonna make you my little cocksleeve, yeah, yeah you like that, don't you? You li—AAGH!’_

Tony stiffened. Someone screamed. He turned around carefully, and found his mystery dance partner being choked, a hand around his throat, his shoes a foot off the ground and it was _Steve, Steve_ was here, Steve was growling, “You touch him, I’ll _rip you_ apart—” and Tony snapped, “What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing,” somehow managing not slur his words.

Steve dropped the guy, and whirled on a foot. His eyes were slitted, furious. “We're leaving.”

“ _Excuse me?”_ Tony snarled back. “The fuck do you think you are, Rogers? _You're_ leaving, you crazy son of a bitch, I just _got_ here.”

Steve's jaw… faltered. There was a look in his eye… “Tony. _Please_.”

The music was slowly coming back on. Someone was winding through the crowd, a staff member. “Sir,” the twinky little hipster shithead was saying, “I'm going to have to ask you and your friend to leave, please.”

Tony bristled, old habits kicking in hard. “You know who I am, asshole?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” Hipster Douche replied, equable, his eyes dropping meaningfully to Tony’s chest, and Tony had to give it to him: That took serious balls, taking that tone around a man with a kill count. Who woulda thought. “I know who you are,” he continued. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave anyway.”

“Jesus. Fine, fine.” He turned to Steve. “Lead the way.”

They didn't speak until they’d gotten into the car—apparently Steve had taken a cab, and made it all the way home, a lot faster than they should've done.

(The Lotus cornered beautifully, went zero to sixty in two seconds flat, and Tony liked making Steve clutch at the door handles, that was fun too.)

 

**Now**

Tony could feel the tremble in Steve’s thighs, could feel the tightening of those heavy balls under him. He sank down on the thick, hard ridge of Steve’s cock, and watched his eyes roll back into his head, a soft grunt escaping his mouth.

Again, he did it, with excruciating slowness, and Steve made another mindless, guttural sound, and again, and again, and Steve’s hips jolted right off the bed, suspending Tony on nothing, impaled on the bruising length of his cock. Tony whimpered, shivering with a white hot rush of pleasure, and then Steve began _really_ fucking him, jack-hammering with no leverage, fucking _up,_ into Tony’s swollen, abused hole, in ragged, harsh strokes. “Tony,” he kept saying, voice scoured down to gravel, a sound like ruin and darkness, “Fuck, _fuck_ , Tony, god, _Tony_ , Tony,” every word layering on top of his thrusts. Tony could feel the burn of tears at the corners of his eyes, as he came with a sudden, unpredictable shout, clenching on that unrelenting cock, coming in great, unbelievable spurts, like it was ripping out of his chest, out of some deep, unknowable core, and Steve fucked him through all of it, coming with a groan, hot wet filling him up, the last thrusts squelching in through all the mess of come and lube, echoing in the room.

It was only when he stopped thrusting that Tony realized…. Steve was still hard.

“Steve?” he said softly, but though Steve's eyes were on him, the gaze was blurred, hazy, like a meth addict on a perfect high.

“Steve,” he said again, more insistent. No response.

And then came the thin trail of fear.

_If Tony asked Steve to stop now… would he?_

 

###### Then

It's only when Steve’s about to turn away from him, and head back to his own bedroom, that Tony speaks up.

“Why the hell did you follow me,” he asks, and regrets it immediately. Hates the shake in his voice, wants to put on his gauntlets and repulsor himself in his own fucking face.

If he ever learned to keep his stupid mouth shut, Tony would take over the world.

“I was worried about you.”

“Worried about me,” Tony repeated bitterly. “Jeez, what caused the change of heart? You didn't seem too worried when you—when we—fucking _hell_ , never mind.”

“You _know_ why I did that,” Steve gritted out.

“Yeah,” _Oh god. Not you._ Steve's words were practically branded into his mind, a field of fire and ash. “Not me.” He barked a caustic laugh. “Of course. Captain America's gotta have standards.”

“You think I…” There was a frown in Steve's voice. “You think I don't _want you?”_ He sounded incredulous, and more than a little pissed.

Tony glared at him. “Not a whole lot of ways a guy can interpret ‘ _I can't do this with you,’_ Captain.”

But Steve was glaring back too, like Tony had insulted his mother, or maybe punched a bald eagle in the beak. “You think I don't _want you?”_ He covered the distance between them into two, impatient strides, a hand foster at Tony's nape with almost cruel, ruthless pressure. _“I want you,”_ he hissed, and then closed the space between their mouths too, and practically set his world on fire.

When they broke away, Tony was half-hard already, mouth feeling kiss-bitten, sore, shivering a little.

But Steve's face was a mask of agony and want, his hands still touching Tony, cupping his face, tracing the lines of him like Tony was something to be memorized, to be needed, and loved, and remembered. Steve's voice was the soft, scared thing of a man at confession: “I'm going to hurt you, don't you see? I don't have—have enough control in this body—”

Tony blinked. “Are your telling me you haven't had sex since _1945?”_ Jesus Christ, no wonder he was so cranky all the damn time. Tony would be too, if he was that pent up.

Steve narrowed his eyes. “What? No, you idiot.”

Oh good, they’d moved on from making out and face holding to the insult fest portion of the evening. Great. “‘Course I have,” Steve was saying. “Just not. Just not—”

“What, with a man?”

Steve shook his head. “With someone who could make me—lose control.”

“I'm less annoying in bed, or so I'm told.”

The look in his eyes was so bright, and lovely, and still full of pain. “That's not— _Tony._ Because I—I want you too much. I wouldn't know how to—I’d _hurt you_ —I wouldn't be able to not—”

_Oh._

“So trust me,” Tony said urgently, bright golden hope flaring like a starburst inside him, like ignition fluid catching spark. “Trust me. I’m a selfish bastard, Rogers. I’d never let you do anything that’d hurt me.”

And Steve's eyes turned unspeakably soft, and his arms around Tony grew so achingly gentle, and _god,_ this night was playing hell on his heart. “ _Tony_ ,” he whispered. “You _would_. It scares me, it _terrifies_ me, the thought that someday I’m going to ask something of you, and you won't say no, even though you should. I can't be the reason you get hurt. Don't make me, _please,_ I don't— I don't want to hurt you.”

“Then don't let me go.”

 

**Now**

Steve’s hands were on him now, those hands that had once not dared to touch Tony. They were stroking his hip, palming his ass, groping the tense length of his thighs. Tony's cock was soft now, sweat drying uncomfortably on his skin, his ass throbbing around the intrusion of Steve’s cock.

“Beautiful,” Steve murmured, spine rising sinuously off the bed, finding Tony's mouth, drawing them together. Steve kissed him lazily, sloppy, gripping his jaw and tongue-fucking his mouth. His hips had started some kind of slow rocking motion, and it made that cock rub agaisnt Tony’s oversensitive prostate, pain flaring through his nerves, on the electric edge of pleasure.

He hissed, involuntary, and that seemed to spur Steve further, his slow smile widening dangerously, still sloe-eyed, hazy.

“Wanted me to fuck you, isn't that right, sweetheart. Wanted to find out how many times I can come for you.”

Another rolling thrust, and Tony groaned, like he'd taken a gut punch, eyes falling shut, gasping for breath.

There was come trickling down his balls and thighs, hot and sticky, smearing between where their bodies joined. Steve’s hands tightened around his hips. “So tight for me, baby, I could fuck you forever, until your cock was bleeding, until you forgot your name, fuck you so long you don't know how to breathe without a cock up that pretty,” thrust, “pretty,” thrust, “hole.”

Tony made some kind of sound, a groan, and Steve rocked up again, again, the blunt mass of his cock pushing down on his prostate endlessly, perfectly, bleeding pleasure out of his mouth, his body, and Steve was still fucking him, bearing him down, onto the mattress, wrists pinned high and thighs pushed down to his chest.

There's no air in his lungs, there's no voice in his head, and Steve’s everything, all around him, hard, febrile heat, using him, draining him out.

“Tony?” Steve asks, that dark, hungry look in his eyes, and it’s an out, it’s a yellow light, it’s a I’ll-stop-if-you-want-me-to, and Tony shivers again, cold threatening at the seams: he doesn’t want Steve to stop.

He wouldn’t be able to bear it. The thought is warm, sudden, shocking in its heat.

He breathes out sharply, and reaches out to touch golden skin, and finds the strength to grip the back of his neck, sweat-slick, straining, _beautiful,_ and whisper, “I told you: Just don’t let me go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, remember to hit kudos <3  
> Find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur


End file.
